


The Party of the Year

by Orange_Coyote



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, Prompt Fill, bucky gets steve to go to a party, implied Clintasha, mentions of imbibing alcohol, steve ends up forgetting most of the night, teen avengers!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orange_Coyote/pseuds/Orange_Coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky drags Steve to the local party of the year at Mr. Popular Tony Stark's home and then promptly leaves Steve to fend for himself.<br/>The man of the hour himself takes Steve under his wing.<br/>The next morning Steve wakes up in his own bed with a headache and a toaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Party of the Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MarthaDanielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarthaDanielle/gifts).



> Wrote this for my dear friend Martha in return for reading her steve/nat fic from years ago.  
> Prompt: Person A stealing Person B's toaster when drunk at Person B's party. They return it and end up making breakfast but burn the toast.

Steve sighs, for the fifth time, as he and Bucky approach the giant manor owned by Howard Stark, currently acting as the party house for his eighteen year old son Tony. The house, if one would call it something so simplistic, towers three stories above their heads from street level, its immaculate lawn protected by a seven foot high rod iron fence, a security team, and an electronic entrance gate. If he forgot the purpose of this visit, Steve could imagine himself a spy on an undercover mission to save the world from a hacker threatening to release the country’s nuke passwords.

Unfortunately, he’s truly here for a house party.

“Buck up, kid,” Bucky says as he pats Steve jovially on the back. “This is the party of the year!”

“Yeah,” Steve grumbles in reply. “I know.”

“Come on, just a few hours and then we’ll get outta here.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Buck sends Steve a reassuring look before leaning over and pressing the buzzer on the gate. He tells the guard about their invite for the party and someone materializes on the other side of the gate to let them through and pat them down. Steve decides to go along with the idea that he’s an undercover spy on a mission after all.

It’s not that Steve Rogers particularly dislikes house parties, or any party in general. It just so happens that _this_ party is the type of party known for getting wildly out of control. And if there is one thing Steve _does_ dislike, it’s when things get out of control.

Walking up the cobbled path to the front door alongside Bucky, Steve can already hear the music blaring from inside. From five feet away. Sigh.

“Loosen up for once, Rogers,” Bucky orders as the reach the door. “You might have a good time.”

“Yeah. Okay, Buck.” It’s probably a good idea to try to fit in with the other party goers anyway, if he doesn’t want to seem suspicious and get his imaginary cover blown.

“That’s the spirit!”

On their way to the party, Bucky had sworn he wouldn’t leave Steve’s side until the younger man felt completely comfortable with his surroundings. As usual tradition dictated, that’s not what happened at all.

One minute Steve stands besides Bucky as they push their way through the thrumming crowd, pausing every now and then to greet someone or other, toward the refreshments at the bar. The next minute Steve is standing alone at the bar, nonalcoholic drink in hand, scanning the crowd for his best friend while simultaneously cursing him in his mind.

He eventually finds him living it up in the middle of the dance floor, three girls surrounding him in a moving circle of gyrating body parts. Steve sighs, half in fondness and half in exasperation. He nearly giggles when he spots another boy watching Bucky’s exploits with a jealous frown. He’s going to love telling Buck about that one later.

Resigning himself to a night of lone corner brooding, Steve looks for a relatively safe place to sit and sip his drink. He can do some people watching, maybe elaborate on his undercover mission’s targets and go from there.

Agilely dodging drunken men and women stumbling around the room is all in a day’s work. Finding an unoccupied region to inhabit, however, proves to be far more difficult than anticipated.

Steve stands in the least obtrusive corner, the bass of the music thumping along with the beat of his heart. Or has his heart beat synched with the beat of the song? It’s tough to tell at this point. There’s a girl standing in the opposite corner, dark red hair and dressed in an all black pantsuit. He almost contemplates going over there – misery loves company, right? – but she gives off the ‘don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t come near me, I will kill you’ vibe that Steve knows so well from his own black moods. Besides, she seems to be in the same predicament, if the way she glares as one of the guys with short brown hair at the DJ booth is any inclination.

“Hey. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

Steve doesn’t recognize the voice, nor does he turn around. He gets guys, and girls, trying to pick him up all the time, so he’s pretty much used to it. He knows how it goes. They drop a line, he gives a monosyllabic response. They ask a question, he gives a monosyllabic response. If the conversation lasts longer than five minutes, Steve gives them credit for their determination.

In this case, he just shrugs.

“How’d you get into my party when I don’t even know who you are?” The man pauses but Steve doesn’t answer so he goes on to say, “Guess it’s time for a new security team.”

“Nah,” Steve comments. He wouldn’t want anyone to lose their job because of him. And from the word on the street, Steve wouldn’t put it past Tony Stark to do so. “They patted me down real good, checked the invite with a black light and everything.”

“Ah, so you do speak.”

“When I feel inclined.”

“Before you decide to go mute again, allow me to introduce myself properly. Which would involve you turning to look at my face.”

Steve pivoted his body in the voice’s direction, putting in an effort to keep his face carefully blank. He’d heard of Tony Stark before, whispers in school hallways and loud explosions in the chemistry lab, but never would he have guessed the man in question to look… well, like _that_.

Dark tousled hair, inherent seductive stare, rough stubble… since when did Steve have a bad boy kink?

Tony sticks out a hand for Steve to shake. “Tony Stark. And you are?”

Steve takes it, wondering why he does. “Steve. Steve Rogers.”

Tony strokes his chin with his free hand, a pondering expression clearly taking over his features for a moment. “Wait, I know who you are. Rhodes is always talking about Barnes’ little friend.”

Steve nods, removing his hand from the other man’s grasp. “Yep, that’s me,” he agrees sardonically. “Little old Steve.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what pleasure they find in throwing a ball around. I prefer hacking the school’s poorly secured system and changing random asshole’s grades. Much more satisfying.”

Steve grins despite himself. “Are you sure you should be sharing such delicate information with a person you don’t really know?”

Tony shrugs. “I’m drunk. I’m bored. I’m at my own party. I think I’m at liberty to do as I please.”

Steve gestures to the room around them. “I’m sure any one of those people would be glad to rid you of your boredom.” He pauses, then adds, “Other than the girl in the pantsuit. She’s probably not your type.”

“Natasha?” Tony laughs. “She’s not bad once you get past her prickly shell. Just look at her and Clint.”

Steve looks over and laughs along. Clint, the brown haired guy from the DJ booth, is currently grinding against Natasha’s thigh. She doesn’t look murderous at all though, just slightly amused.

“Well, who would have guessed.”

“Besides,” Tony adds conspiratorially. “I don’t want to deal with any of those people. That’s why I’m over here, in this secret corner apparently no one but you noticed.”

“Secret corner?”

“Do you see anyone else here? No. Then it must be a secret.”

Steve chuckles. “How drunk are you?”

Tony shrugs. “Not drunk enough.” He waves one hand in the direction of the bar. “Care to help me remedy that?”

Steve looks at him, really _looks_ at him, for the first time in this entire conversation, and feels like he can trust him. “Sure, okay.”

* * *

The next time Steve opens his eyes, there’s a bright light piercing into his skull by way of his eyeballs. His head is cushioned on something soft, yet it throbs as if he’s laying on a pile of sharp rocks. His arms and legs feel like rubber. His mouth tastes like a desert. It takes a full minute of groaning and covering his eyes before he remembers where he is and the gist of what happened the previous night.

He had gotten drunk with Tony Stark. Not just drunk, but _completely wasted_. Drunk to the point that he doesn’t remember getting home. And he definitely doesn’t remember falling asleep with a toaster in his arms.

_Did I make out with this toaster? Is that what happened?_

Crawling out of bed, carefully avoiding overworking his tired muscles, Steve stumbles his way into the living room to find Bucky sprawled over the couch, his legs draped over one armrest while his arms drooped enough so that his fingertips touched the floor. Steve would have laughed if he didn’t still have a dull ache in his head and the Sahara in his mouth.

Steve approaches the unconscious figure with caution. Buck likes to swing when woken abruptly. “Buck? Buck, you awake?”

“Mmm.”

“What happened to me last night?”

Muffled laughter.

“Talk.”

Bucky leisurely rolls off his stomach and onto his back, his grin already foreshadowing the fact that Steve will most likely not enjoy what he’s about to hear. “You got drunk, danced on a table, sung a rousing duet with Stark, stole a toaster, dragged me out, somehow got us home, and then passed out in your bed with said toaster cradled protectively in your arms.”

Steve groans, secondhand embarrassment burning brightly in his gut. “Oh crap.”

“Indeed, my friend. Congrats. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Shut up, Buck.“ Steve looks down at the gleaming stainless steel toaster still in his grip. Why didn’t he want to put it down? “Whose toaster is this anyway?”

“Stark’s I would assume, since that’s the only place we were last night.”

“Crap.”

“You should probably return it to him,” Bucky points out idly, already returning to his favorite sleeping position. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”

“I guess so,” Steve agreed reluctantly. “You think he’s awake right now?”

Bucky sighs and lifts his head far enough to be able to read the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s 8 AM. What do you think?” He buries his head back beneath the couch pillow, murmuring, “Can’t even sleep in when you have a hangover. Damn abnormal, Stevie.”

Steve graciously decides to let the remark go instead of beating his best friend senseless. He makes his way back into his bedroom to change into something more appropriate than his America themed boxers, his head already feeling ten times clearer than it had when he first woke. Apparently learning that you’re the type of drunk that enjoys stealing toasters clears a mind faster than any warm Bloody Mary could.

He almost wonders if this is as crazy as it seems but pushes the thought aside before it can rankle him. He’ll go to Stark’s house, return the toaster, and all will go back to the way it once was. Normal.

Somehow he remembers the way without really giving it any thought, probably because Tony’s house is tough to forget in any circumstance.

He presses the buzzer and is surprised when Tony himself answers and invites him right in. No security pat down, no eyes watching him from the shadows as he walks to the elaborate front door.

He knocks, for no reason other than habit, and waits for the door to open.

Again Tony surprises him by answering the door himself – yesterday some butler named Jarvis had done it – wearing a half open robe and apparently nothing else. Steve reminds himself to look at Tony’s face when he starts to talk.

“Ah good, you brought the toaster. I’m about to eat. Come in.”

Steve follows Tony past the threshold wordlessly, shutting the door behind him. The splendorous decor of the interior is much more obvious than Steve remembers, but then again it was all flashing lights and sweating bodies the night before. Now he takes a moment to fully appreciate the rich, dark wooden floorboards, the exotic statues and paintings lining the walls, as well as the colorful rugs blanketing the floor of the hallway.

The hallway leads straight ahead into a immaculate kitchen, stainless steel dotting every available surface. Steve can almost imagine this exact kitchen on a spaceship somewhere, light years away from any place humanity can venture, pristine and perfectly sanitized. Tony leans again the closed door of the refrigerator, critically eying a carton of eggs sitting on the island counter. Steve stands in the doorway watching, unsure what to do next.

Tony looks up then, sees him standing there, and waves him in. “Sit. I’m trying to decide what to do with these.”

Steve takes a seat on one of the chrome stools, placing the toaster on the clean surface in front of him. He almost forgot about it, honestly.

“What’s your pleasure, Rogers? Scrambled? Sunny side up? Poached?”

“Me? Usually scrambled, with bacon.”

“Sounds good to me.” Tony fumbles through the fridge, pulling out a package of uncooked bacon. Then he takes the time to procure two frying pans from a cabinet above his head. If Steve sort of checks out the guy’s arms in the process, no one can really blame him.

“Why don’t you plug in the toaster and get some bread going,” Tony suggests once he has all his necessary ingredients strategically placed across the counter. “Or bagels, if that’s more your style.”

Steve nods as Tony points out the general direction in which bread can be found. Plugging in the toaster is easy, there are outlets virtually all along the wall, but deciding on which type of bread to use is a bit more difficult. What sort of bread does Tony even like? Steve shakes the thought from his mind and goes with something tried and true: whole wheat. If Tony doesn’t like it, he’ll say as much. He’s just that type of person.

Steve slides four slices of bread into the toaster on the four setting, figuring it’ll be a bit crunchy but not burnt on the edges. Hopefully. Because burnt toast is not pleasant. At all.

“Do you find any of this just the least bit odd?” Steve asks when Tony starts flipping the bacon, an apron proclaiming ‘Kiss The Cook’ tied haphazardly around his waist.

“What?”

“The toaster stealing, the breakfast making, the familiarity of it all.”

“No. Do you?”

Steve gave it a second of thought. “No,” he replied eventually, finding the answer to be a bit unexpected but completely true. “Which is weird in itself.”

“Relax. Do you always think so much?”

“Probably.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “That’s your problem. Sometimes you’ve just gotta go with the flow, take the cards the universe deals you.”

“I guess.”

Tony pulls out two plates from a different cabinet than before, setting them beside one another on the island counter. He heaps a healthy serving of eggs onto both, adding four strips of bacon each for good measure. Two forks make an appearance from a drawer of silverware, then two glasses filled with orange juice, and lastly two cloth napkins provide the finishing touch.

Tony sits beside Steve with a shrug. “I’m not much of a cook, but this shouldn’t kill you.”

“Wow, how reassuring.”

Tony stuffs a bite of eggs into his mouth. “No one said you had to eat it.”

Steve raises a brow but says nothing. He looks at the eggs, which don’t seem bad, and the bacon, which isn’t burnt nor too soft, and decides to go for it. What’s the worst that could happen?

Before Steve can take a full bite, his instincts tell him something is wrong. He sniffs the air experimentally and the acrid scent of smoke hits his nostrils.

“Is something burning?”

Tony pauses mid bite and looks around. “Yeah, the toast.” Then goes back to eating like a small fire in his kitchen is just another ordinary facet of life.

Steve drops his fork and jumps from his seat, rushing over to where the toaster is emitting thin wisps of black smoke. The odor of burnt bread is growing stronger by the second. “Are you going to help me out here?”

Tony looks between his half full plate and Steve standing expectantly beside the smoking appliance. “Nah. You look like you can handle it.” Then back to eating again.

Steve groans. “Fine.” First he unplugs the toaster as quickly and carefully as possible, pulling it away from the outlet and anything that could easily catch fire. Not knowing what else to do, Steve fiddles with the little bar until it pops up to signify the toast is done. The bread slices that reveal themselves from the depths of the smoke are burnt to a blackened crisp. Steve reaches out to probe one and its crust flakes to dust beneath his gentle touch.

Tony looks up, plate finally empty and hunger apparently satiated, and grins. “See, told you that you could handle it. No fire at all.”

Steve simply glares.

Tony raises his hands. “Alright, sorry. Too soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> That honestly took a turn from what I originally plotted out, but still fun.  
> Oh and there will most likely be a version in reverse, ie drunk!Tony stealing Steve's toaster.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Better Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589325) by [Orange_Coyote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orange_Coyote/pseuds/Orange_Coyote)




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